Chained
by smellslikecorruption
Summary: They're over it. No really. They are. GM/M


AN: Uh. I don't really know what this is? I tore through all of AD this month, and then this odd little story wouldn't leave me alone.

….

George Michael would like to think that he's matured in the last five years. He's in college. He's twenty-one now, legal in every single sense of the word. Loosened up a bit. He wears jeans sometimes (but only the really, really nice ones.), and even leaves his shirt untucked (of course they're still button ups. What is he? Some kind of animal?). He's had a girlfriend. More than one actually. And not a single one of them made his father look at him in confusion. And, most importantly, he is absolutely, positively, one hundred and twenty percent over that thing he had for his cousin. George Michael is a grown up, and grown ups simply don't fall in love with their cousins. And that's what Maeby is. His cousin (Except for how she's totally not, and hopefully one day he'll get rid of the voice in his head that constantly reminds him of that fact.).

So when Michael tells him that he'll be rooming with Maeby the whole time they're in New York for Lucille's sister's funeral, George Michael doesn't anticipate having any issues.

This is, of course, before he opens the door to their room and finds her wearing the shortest pair of shorts he's ever seen, flipping through the channels on the TV. And reclining against a stack of pillows on the only bed in the room.

"Hey George Michael! They accidently put us in a single instead of a double, but when I talked to your dad about it, he said that the hotel's booked solid and if we can just grin and bear it for a couple of days, he'll pay for anything we want out of the mini-bar."

Which is when he spots the collection of tiny bottles laying next to Maeby, and has an extremely vivid flashback to stolen wine, and being drunk on the living room floor, and the way Maeby had let him slide his hand under her shirt. He gulps and decides that this weekend is going to be a lot more difficult than he originally thought.

An hour later, after they've exchanged stories about college, and complained about their family, and relieved the mini-bar of all it's M&Ms, Maeby gets up to take a shower before dinner and George Michael flops onto the bed and tries to ward off unsavory memories.

He used to always try to shower before her, back in the model house. Or let enough time pass between her shower and his, for the smell of her shampoo to dissipate, and the steam to clear off the mirror. Because Maeby, she used to take these ridiculously hot showers. She'd turn the water almost up to boiling, and stay in there until their tiny bathroom was choked with steam and the smell of her soap. But worst was when she would come out, her hair dripping wet and tied into a bun on top of her head, not a thing on her body but a towel. The heat from the shower always turned her pink, and he'd known, without an inkling of doubt, that she was pink everywhere, even the parts he couldn't see for the towel. The mornings he had to shower right after her were absolute torture. The bathroom was always so warm, and wet, and everything smelled like her, like she was there with him, surrounding him. And he was a teenager for heaven's sake, and those were the morning's he just couldn't help himself. He would have to brace himself with one hand on the wall and one hand reaching down to take care of things, images of pink skin and bouncing curls racing through his mind. He always felt guilty about it afterward, but those were always the days he would go to school happier, and significantly less tense than normal.

He shifts a little on the bed, and then gets up to find the vodka, because Jesus Christ, he's half-hard just thinking about it. Between the bed and the mini-bar he happens to glance at the bathroom door (it wasn't on purpose, okay? He can't always control where his head turns), and he's assaulted with the sudden image of her standing under the water, naked and dripping, and just like that, he isn't _half_ anything, and yeah, this could be a problem.

…

Maeby lay completely still next to George Michael, and listened to his even breaths. He'd jumped into the shower almost immediately after she'd gotten out, and he must really find hot water soothing because he'd fallen asleep almost immediately as soon as he'd climbed in bed.

She can feel the heat from where his leg is almost touching hers under the sheets. Five years ago, this would have been a problem. But she's over him now. Completely, definitely over. She's a grown up. A real one. And she has, well he's not a boyfriend exactly, but they have sex kind of a lot, so he's something. And she feels nothing for George Michael. Really. He's nothing to her but a sort-of relative, who she once let feel her up in their living room.

Except here's the thing. She's maybe, a little bit massively turned on right now. But it doesn't mean anything. It's like those stupid dogs that salivate at the sound of a bell.

The thing adults and the media never really showcase, is that teenage girls are pretty much as constantly horny as teenage boys. Which Maeby would have thought was unfair anyway, but living with George Michael had made it seem even less fair. God really should have made it easier for girls to get themselves off while standing up in the shower. But no. That would have been too easy. Instead she had to wait, trying no t fidget too much on her bunk, pressing her thighs together, and running through the lines in whatever script she was working on. She had to wait until his breathing finally evened out, and he started making the weird snuffling noises that meant he wouldn't be back among the living for a good long while. And she would finally be able to flip onto her stomach and slide her hand down, under the band of her pajamas, trapping her fingers between the mattress and her skin. She would lie as still as possible, trying as hard she could to not make any noise, her hips rocking against her twitching fingers, until she had to bite down on her lip, and her body bowed up from the bed. Most nights she didn't think of anything in particular, or she'd think about a sex scene from one of her scripts. But the nights she finished fastest, bit her lip the hardest, were this nights she pretended George Michael was laying just beneath her, doing the exact same thing.

So that's all this is. Just a learned response from being close to him while he slept during her formative years. But then he rolls into her and the place where his skin is touching hers is quite possibly going to go up in flames, and oh God, she is really, really wet right now, so yes, this could turn out to be a problem.

….

They almost make it. Three days of horrible family events, entertaining family fights, and lots and lots of booze. Two more nights of lying side-by-side and pretending that they're over it, really.

Then, on the last night, they break. He's tipsy enough to ask her if she blushes _everywhere_ when she's embarrassed, and she's feeling reckless enough to start undoing the buttons on her shirt and tell him to come over there and find out.

When it's her fingers wrapping around him, and his fingers dragging across her, and their bodies frantically pushing and pulling against each other, neither of them can remember why this was supposed to be such a problem in the first place.

In the morning they do it again. Slower and longer, and a little bit sweeter, and yeah, okay they really aren't over it at all and George Michael almost misses his flight, but it's really hard to care when it's the best either of them have felt in years.


End file.
